


Filling Up Our Imaginations

by DetectiveJoan



Category: The Bright Sessions (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Season/Series 02, That's right folks; we're here for FEMSLASH and TROPES
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 04:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13919241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveJoan/pseuds/DetectiveJoan
Summary: “Well,” Sam starts slowly, “if they’ve been watching you enough to know that we’re spending time together, it was only a matter of time until the A.M. started asking what we were doing, wasn’t it?”Joan has no idea where she’s going with this. “I suppose so,” she confirms hesitantly.“We don’t want them to know that what we’re actually doing is trying to rescue Mark,” Sam says and raises one shoulder in a small shrug. “It might be easier to let them think we’re dating.”





	Filling Up Our Imaginations

**Author's Note:**

> **Content warnings!** My rule of thumb is that I have to warn for **age difference** anytime a ship's age gap is more than 5 years; these two are about 7 years apart. Additionally, there's **inherent consent issues** involved with Sam being Joan's former patient. It comes up.
> 
> This is set towards the end of season 2, but don't ask me for a more specific timeframe. It's an AU, idk.
> 
> Title from "[Freckles and Constellations](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=70L9mzLMTEg)" by Dodie Clark

Joan has a long history of losing all semblance of impulse control when she has a crush.

In the fourth grade, she stabbed a pair of safety scissors into Tyler William’s football because he was making fun of the Catherine Mendoza, the cutest girl Joan had ever met. In high school, Joan joined the yearbook club just because Mason Glad invited her to, and she’d spent most of Algebra II fantasizing about him asking her to prom. Right after she turned twenty-one, she and the TA she’d drooled over for all of sophomore year were part of the same group hang at a local bar, and Joan tried to prove that she was _totally_ the coolest and most adult person who definitely knew her way around alcohol by slamming three shots on an empty stomach.

All of this to say that somewhere between constantly swooning over how cute Sam is and trying to keep her obscenely inappropriate crush underwraps, Joan should have predicted that it was only a matter of time until she did something monumentally foolish.

That moment eventually comes towards the end of her latest check-in with Owen, when she crosses her arms and says, “Actually, _Agent_ Green, I am in a relationship.”

Owen has always understood her capacity for compulsive lying, which is probably why he immediately scoffs.

“Joan,” he says, voice full of that forced calm he uses whenever he tries to logic his way through an argument with her, “I know it’s slightly uncouth to acknowledge it, but you and I both know that the A.M. keeps you under a certain amount of surveillance. I think we would have noticed if you’d started seeing someone. The only people you consistently speak with are your patients and Sarah and, recently one —” he has to flip through his files to find the name, “— Miss Samantha Barnes?”

“I —,” Joan says, and then stops. “Um, yes.”

Owen raises his eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Joan says again, unsure where the words are coming from. “Sam and I are dating.”

 

***

 

She and Sam happen to have standing Friday evening plans to meet at Sam’s place for time-travel practice and take-out, which means that Joan has to admit to her impulsivity just a few hours later.

“You told him _what?”_ Sam repeats incredulously.

“I don’t know,” Joan says miserably. “Owen was needling me about not dating anyone since he and I broke up, and he just sounded so smug that I wanted to — ,” she closes her fists in a sort of strangling gesture and makes a very undignified sound. “But then he brought up that the A.M. hasn’t noticed me spending time with anyone else besides you, and I...ran with it.”

“Wow,” Sam says after a minute. Her face is doing something complicated, like she has too many questions and doesn’t know where to start. Eventually, she says, “What did he say?”

“Congratulations,” Joan says, much more dryly than Owen had.

“Wait, he actually believed it?” Sam asks, almost gleefully; Joan has to close her eyes to keep her heart from fluttering at the sight of Sam’s grin.

“Yes, I think he did.” She’d like to believe it’s possible, too, that the idea of them together isn’t completely ludicrous and that Sam would ever possibly feel anything like that about her, but Joan’s trying to at least not lie to herself. Sam’s not that kind of girl.

Joan swallows. “Listen, I know it was a dumb thing to say, Sam. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied and I shouldn’t have roped you into it. I’ll call Owen on Monday and tell him the truth.”

“No, it’s fine,” Sam says. “You don’t need to tell him.”

Joan waits a second to see if her brain can figure out exactly how she’s misheard Sam, but the words don’t change. “Come again?”

“Well,” Sam starts slowly, “if they’ve been watching you enough to know that we’re spending time together, it was only a matter of time until the A.M. started asking what we were doing, wasn’t it?”

Joan has no idea where she’s going with this. “I suppose so,” she confirms hesitantly.

“We don’t want them to know that what we’re actually doing is trying to rescue Mark,” Sam says and raises one shoulder in a small shrug. “It might be easier to let them think we’re dating.”

Joan opens her mouth to respond, and then closes it when she realizes she has no clue what to say. Her brain spins wildly around the idea for a few minutes, but doesn’t come up with any solid objections or flaws in the logic.

“Oh god, unless you don’t want to,” Sam adds in a sudden rush. “Because that’s totally —”

“No, Sam, I’m fine with it,” Joan says, her urgency to calm Sam overriding her instinct to overthink it. “But I wouldn’t want to impose on you.”

“Ha,” Sam says faintly. “Yeah, cause I have so much other stuff going on in my life that I couldn’t possibly find the time to pretend to date you. Joan, c’mon, I’m totally fine with it.”

“Well then, I suppose we should,” Joan says.

“Great,” Sam replies.

“Great.”

Joan takes a long drink and tries to give her brain a minute to catch up with what the hell just happened.

 

***

 

The rest of the evening goes well. Sam slips into the meditation surprisingly quickly, and then Joan spends ten minutes petting Darwin while Sam spends three hours in the past.

“Mark says that he loves you, and that I should make you tell me the story of the first time you got drunk,” Sam reports when she gets back.

Because what are little brothers for except to embarrass you in front of your crush even when they're in a different dimension.

(It's anyone's guess _how_ he knows that Joan has a crush on Sam, but he obviously does.)

(God, she misses him, and is also going to kill him for this after they rescue him.)

The story makes Sam laugh so hard that she actually falls off the couch, and Joan can't help but feel gratified that her college mistakes are, at the very least, amusing.

It’s dusk when Joan finally goes to leave. Sam walks her out, and shuts the door behind her to keep Darwin in, and then they’re standing on the porch together as their conversation trails off. Joan fiddles with her keys.

Suddenly, Sam reaches out and puts her hand on Joan’s arm. Joan looks at her with a question in her eyes.

“Hey, uh,” Sam says, “you know that thing we said about us dating?”

As if Joan had stopped thinking about it for a single second since it happened. And really, if they’re going to pull it off, Joan’s going to have to figure out how to stop her heart from jumping every time she thinks about it.

“Yeah?” she says, and awards herself points when her voice doesn’t waver.

“You don’t think they’re…?”

“Right now? Probably not,” Joan says. She’s seen the A.M. budgets; they may be pretty loaded for a non-profit, but even they don’t have the cash to pay someone with a pair of binoculars to follow her around in a conspicuous van. Not that she’d be worth the effort, considering that she’s played along with them for a few years now. They’re certainly skimming through her emails and tapping her phones, but there are practical limits to their spy work.

Then again, if they know she’s been spending time with Sam, maybe they have been watching her more closely than she realized.

“Oh,” Sam says, and she almost looks...disappointed? “Well, I was just thinking that if this had been a date, maybe we — actually, nevermind.”

“Sam,” Joan says gently.

Owen had told her once that her encouraging girlfriend voice sounded a lot like her compassionate therapist voice, and she silently curses him for putting that comparison in her head.

Sam’s cheeks are tinged red, and she’s looking down at her shoes. “If this were a date, we’d kiss before you left, probably,” she says. “But if they’re not watching, it’s not — just forget it. Forget I said anything. Sorry.”

She lets out a shaky laugh.

“Oh,” Joan says because she is the opposite of clever.

Sam’s hand is still on Joan’s arm. When she pulls it away, Joan instinctually reaches up and takes it in her own hand.

Her whole mouth is suddenly dry.

“I mean, we could practice,” she says. “For when they are watching. If you want.”

Sam bites her bottom lip, and Joan knows that’s just one of her nervous tics but it almost feels like a taunt in this moment. “Practice,” Sam repeats vaguely. “Yeah, sure. Good idea.”

It takes Joan a minute to realize that’s as much initiative as Sam’s going to be able to take on this. If Joan wants them to kiss — and oh _god_ does she want them to kiss so badly, it’s the only coherent thought her brain can put together now that Sam’s suggested it — she’s going to have to do the rest of the work. So she carefully pulls Sam closer by their still-joined hand, and brings her other hand up to Sam’s waist.

It feels more intimate than it should.

Sam lets her eyes flutter closed. The last of the sunlight plays across her face, emphasizing her long, dark lashes, and the faint spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose. The crickets chirping around them seem to get quieter as Joan leans closer. This whole idea probably crosses about fifty ethical boundaries, but she’s powerless against how beautiful Sam looks in this moment.

Their lips meet.

It’s everything good about a first kiss, starting slow before building and deepening. There’s a current of mutual curiosity and uncertainty that passes between them as they push back and forth. Sam puts her hand on Joan’s shoulder hesitantly, but kisses with more surety. When she bites gently at Joan’s bottom lip, Joan feels herself go weak at the knees.

She has to break the kiss before she falls into it completely. As it is, she’d be happy to be scooped up in Sam’s arms and carried back inside like the besotted fool that she is.

Sam offers her a crooked grin. “That was pretty convincing.”

 

***

 

What Joan wants to do as soon as she drives away is turn the car around, declare her intentions properly, and kiss Sam again until she’s dizzy with it, until they can’t say the relationship is a lie or a facade or a cover-up or a trick.

Instead, she buys herself a milkshake on the way home, because even therapists who make bad decisions and are suckers for cute girls deserve to treat themselves after long days.

 

***

 

She should text Sam when she gets home. Right? That’s something she would do if they were dating (if the A.M. is reading her messages)? She should check in to let her girlfriend know that she got home okay?

Not that Joan has ever been in the sort of relationship where they texted, but it seems like the thing to do nowadays.

Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe Sam would think it was weird.

And maybe whatever unlucky A.M. agent was tasked with shuffling through her correspondence would find it odd that they’d started messaging today out of the blue.

Joan drums her fingers on the steering wheel and doesn’t make a decision.

When she gets home, though, she finds that Sam has already texted her.

_Thanks for dinner :*_

Joan has to google what the symbols at the end mean, and then she has to put her phone down on the kitchen counter and walk away for a minute to collect herself when she finds the answer.

A kiss.

She runs her thumb over her bottom lip.

She spends a good twenty minutes debating possible replies, typing and erasing and retyping. In the end, she deletes everything she’s written, and just hits a heart emoji and the send key.

Keep it simple.

She has to leave her phone charging in the kitchen that night so she can sleep without checking for a reply message every three minutes.

 

***

 

Joan doesn’t text Sam again all weekend and, frankly, she’s proud of herself for it.

She doesn’t have to think about it too hard to know that this whole thing is going to blow up in her face sooner rather than later, but there’s no need to self-sabotage by saying something that gives the game away or — god forbid — lets slip how she really feels.

It’s just a crush, and it’s not even _new,_ even if the parameters of their relationships have changed. She can be an adult about it, and not spend the entire weekend obsessing over the memory of Sam’s touch.

She _can._

 

***

 

Sam sends her a short text Monday morning.

_Hey honey, mind if I stop by your office later? :)_

Joan bites her lip. She can’t remember the last time someone called her by a pet name like that, even in jest. Or duplicity. Or….whatever this is.

Something besides sincerity, she reminds herself. She sends her assent without letting herself think about it too hard. It’s not like it’s going to be a date or something; Sam probably just wants to talk to her about a trip without the A.M. listening in on a phone call. And she sent the text to create a paper trail for their cover-up story. It’s smart.

Joan forces herself to tuck her phone in a desk drawer.

When she allows herself to check it again ten minutes later, Sam’s sent her back _I’m meeting Chloe for coffee right now, I’ll see you after,_ followed by a whole string of heart emojis.

Joan takes a screenshot of the conversation. For paper trail purposes.

 

***

 

When Joan walks her patient out after her first session, it’s not Sam sitting in her waiting room, but Agent Green. He’s making painful small talk with Sarah, and looking as mildly uncomfortable as he always does when he isn’t in control of a space. Something about it is almost still endearing.

Damn, she has a type.

“Dr. Bright,” he says when he sees her, sounding relieved that she’s come to rescue him from his own social awkwardness.

“Agent Green,” she replies coolly. “What can I do for you?”

He proffers up a stack of files. “I came across some class-D research that I thought might be helpful for you. Are you still working a spatial-displacement theory?”

Oh, yeah. That was a lie she had told him recently. She manages a professional smile and takes the papers. “Any reason you brought them over personally? First thing on a Monday morning?”

She should have just said thank you and sent him on his way, but instead she lets him fold his now-empty arms rather sheepishly. “I wanted to talk to you about something that came up at our meeting last week, actually,” he says. “I’d love to sit down with you if you have a minute.”

Unfortunately, she does have a block of spare time before her next appointment, so she gestures him towards the open office and then follows him in.

She drops the files on her desk heavily and takes a seat. He stops behind the chair opposite hers, rests his elbows on the back of it, and laces his fingers together in front of his face. It’s not an Agent Green stance.

“I take it this isn’t a professional inquiry,” she notes dryly. Not that any of their conversations ever remain professional for long; maybe dispensing with the pretense from the start will freshen things up.

“Not exactly,” Owen says. “I wanted to talk to you about Samantha Barnes?”

Joan leans back in her chair, careful to keep her expression neutral. “What about her?”

“Was she a patient of yours?” he says slowly. “When the two of you started dating, I mean?”

She almost laughs. “If you of all people are here to lecture me about ethical workplace relationships, Owen, you can spare me.”

“No, I know.” He holds up a hand to ward off her very valid point about his hypocrisy. “I’m not trying to say anything about us.”

“What are you trying to say?”

He rubs a hand across his forehead and finally sits down. “Joan,” he says, “I’m here as your friend —”

“We’re not friends.”

“— as your colleague, then,” he corrects without pause, “to make sure you know what you’re doing. Because it sure as hell doesn’t look like you do. I mean, dating a patient? I know neither of us exactly have a moral high ground here, but this feels like something else, even for you.”

It’s a truer accusation than he could know.

And if this were anyone but Sam, if the A.M. weren’t looming over all their lives, if Mark were here, if she were a typical therapist with typical patients, if any of a hundred other little things were different? If she and Sam were actually dating and not just systematically jerking her heart around in painful circles? She’d probably appreciate the check-in from a professional colleague.

But as it is?

“I’ll be fine, Owen.”

He considers her for a long moment. “I won’t be the last person to figure this out. Is she worth it?”

It’s not like Joan has much of a professional reputation to guard at this point. It’s not like anyone gets out of the A.M. with both that and clean hands. It’s not like Joan isn’t grateful every day that she at least managed to walk away without too many blood stains on her skin.

Still, the entire idea of dating Sam is….more than she could have predicted. It’s only been a few days, but the pangs in her chest suddenly don’t feel like just a stupid crush anymore. She remembers the press of Sam’s lips against her own, the disappointment she felt a moment ago when Sam wasn’t in her waiting room, the easy camaraderie they’ve come to share after so many Friday nights spent together, the way Sam makes her believe for the first time in a long time that she might see Mark again, even the smile she couldn’t suppress at the texts Sam has sent her. All put together, it’s easy to see the potential for so much more.

But before Joan can figure out how to say any of that to Owen, the door to her office bursts open and Chloe enters, dragging Sam by the hand.

“Excuse me,” Owen starts, sounding rather indignant considering it isn’t his office. Chloe just points at him more aggressively than Joan would have thought her capable of.

“You? Zip it,” she says, then turns her finger to Joan. “You? Are ridiculous. And Sam has something to tell you.”

Behind her, Sam is blushing like mad and apparently trying to hide her entire face in her free hand. “Chloe, please don't make me do this,” she says, sounding like speaking is physically painful.

Owen looks at Joan. “Should I…?”

“Yes,” she and Chloe answer simultaneously. It’s possibly the only question Joan’s qualified to answer in this moment; whatever the hell is going on, she’s certain she doesn’t need Owen there to witness it.

He hesitates for only a moment before standing. “I trust you’ll find those files beneficial,” he tells Joan. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”

They exchange a look, and she nods to let him know she understands the unspoken implications of the offer. For a moment it almost does feel like he’s still a friend, and then he turns and leaves.

Chloe doesn’t even wait for the door to shut behind him before dragging Sam around the desk to stand in front of Joan.

“Sam told me the most ridiculous story this morning,” she says, gesturing impatiently until Joan stands up, and then putting Sam’s hand into Joan’s. “Something about you and her _pretending to date?_ Which would be a pretty absurd idea by itself, to be honest, Dr. Bright — but! It gets even more absurd! Because guess what I’ve been hearing in Sam’s thoughts ever since the day you introduced me to her?”

Chloe drops into Joan’s vacated chair and turns her expectant gaze to Sam.

Sam takes a deep breath, exhales heavily and finally — finally — looks at Joan. “I like you,” she admits, like every word is a chore.

Joan tries to keep her thoughts in control — and in the realm of the possible, of the real, because of course Sam likes her, they’re friends — but a small part of her jumps at the words, and she can’t help but wonder hopefully if —

“She _like-_ likes you,” Chloe clarifies, because Joan is, apparently, an eleven-year-old child.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says miserably. “It’s just a crush, I promise it’s not a big deal. It doesn’t have to change anything between us! I wasn’t even going to tell you, but then this morning Chloe suddenly decided —”

Joan cups Sam’s face in both of her hands, feels the heat of her blush against her palms, and kisses her slowly, until her surprise melts into eagerness and she curls her arms around Joan’s waist.

Joan pulls away when she can’t suppress her grin any longer. “I like you, too, Sam,” she says, and it’s suddenly impossibly easy to admit.

Sam’s arms tighten around her in shock and she stares at Joan for a moment before rounding on Chloe with an incredulous look.

“Chloe!” she nearly shrieks.

“I didn’t want to meddle!” Chloe exclaims. “I was gonna wait and let you guys figure it out on your own, but then you did —” she makes a vague gesture, “— _this_ instead. Which, seriously? Pretending to date?”

It does somehow seem even more ridiculous when someone else says it.

“You couldn’t have just told me?” Sam demands.

Chloe shrugs. “You would have gotten there eventually.”

“Thank you, Chloe,” Joan says sincerely, taking Sam's hand again. “But would you mind —”

“Leaving so you two can make out? Yeah, sure. Oh, don't try to be coy about it. Neither of you are good at coy.”

“You are the most embarrassing friend I've ever had,” Sam says.

“I'm the best friend you've ever had,” Chloe corrects as she leaves, “and you're welcome.”

And then Sam is kissing Joan again, and it’s slower and softer than it had been before. Joan lets herself get swept up in it this time, lets herself fall completely head-first into the swooping feeling in her stomach and the growing warmth in her chest.

When she goes weak at the knees, Sam catches her.

**Author's Note:**

> Mark’s been trying to convince Sam to ask Joan out for WEEKS, but it’s kinda hard to play matchmaker from the 19th century. Poor guy.
> 
> Kudos and comments are super appreciated, or you're welcome to come yell at me directly on [tumblr](http://detectivejoan.tumblr.com/) <3


End file.
